


Here Comes Santa Claus

by AidaRonan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steve is Santa, Anal Sex, Beard Burn, Beard Kink, Bearded Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Christmas Smut, Crack Treated Seriously, Creampie, Explicit Consent, Hair-pulling, Hand wavey Christmas magic, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Rimming, Santa!Steve, This Santa Fucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27887812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AidaRonan/pseuds/AidaRonan
Summary: Bucky attacks an intruder on Christmas Eve and is distressed to find out that Santa is real and also unnecessarily hot.(Or almost 7000 words of Hot Santa Steve porn that no one asked for.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 122
Kudos: 556





	Here Comes Santa Claus

At 11:54 p.m. on Christmas Eve, Bucky Barnes wakes with a start. This is his first Christmas since the ‘40s, his first Christmas after being captured by Natalia Romanova and her team, his first Christmas after three years of recovery and Remembering. He’s in a guest room at Barton’s farm, and his enhanced senses are screaming !Danger!

Rustling. Crinkling. Footsteps downstairs. They’re too heavy to be Barton or his wife or his kids. The rhythm is off too. There is an intruder in Barton’s house, and Bucky thinks of the bright blue bicycle beneath the tree with the tassels hanging from the handlebars. Then he thinks of the little girl with the gap in her teeth who helped him decorate cookies and…

“Not tonight, motherfucker,” he mumbles, throwing off the covers. He memorized the trick stairs and floorboards within an hour of arrival, and he navigates them seamlessly to find his way right outside the living room. It’s brightly lit despite the late hour, because the Bartons left the tree on for the holiday. Bucky presses himself against the wall beside the door frame and listens.

“And that’s all for Cooper.” someone whispers. “Let’s see about Lila.”

Bucky doesn’t know the voice, and there’s no way Barton would have an unknown guest come over and not tell him. There’s also no way Barton would have a guest over in the middle of the goddamned night. Bucky takes a deep breath, readying himself and his muscles, feeling the plates in his new arm quietly shift and recalibrate, and then he tears around the door frame at a sprint, taking the intruder down with a full body tackle.

It’s only landing on the couch instead of the floor that keeps them from waking the whole house. The man grunts as the air leaves his lungs, and he looks up at Bucky with wide eyes.

“Who the fuck are you, who do you work for, and what do you want?” Bucky asks. And this is the moment when he finally gets a good look at the intruder.

And fuck, oh fuck. Oh _fuck._ It’s a pity that the guy’s some kind of nefarious criminal because _goddamn_. He’s wearing a bright red Christmas sweater that looks like it was knit for someone half his size. It clings to his triangle-shaped torso and to biceps ripped enough to punch bricks. He has on skinny-leg black pants and leather suspenders. Beneath a knitted Santa hat, his hair is a pale gray, and when they catch the light, there is a hint of blond visible in his luxurious beard and fashionably-styled mustache. An honest-to-God gold hoop in one of his ears completes the ensemble—making him look like some kind of hot Christmas pirate. And those eyes. Christ, those eyes. Bucky could swim in them. Bucky could do a lot of things if this guy would—

“What?” Holly Jolly Roger asks.

“What?” Bucky echoes, because he momentarily forgot why he tackled this guy onto the sofa. But, oh yeah. Intruder. Thief. Possible spy or villain-of-the-week. “Who are you? Who do you work for? What do you want?”

Sweater looks at him like Bucky just asked him on which days of the week the trains in New York turn into pink cotton candy. “I’m fucking Santa Claus, asshole.”

“And I’m the goddamned Tooth Fairy.”

“No, I’m friends with the Tooth Fairy. They’re a redhead and about a foot and a half taller than you are.”

“What?”

“What?”

“I’m serious. You’ve got five seconds to start talking. Five, four…”

Sweater sighs and shakes his head. “It’s always the ones too old to put on the Naughty List.” And then he puts a finger on the side of his nose, and Bucky falls face-forward into the sofa cushions as Sweater disappears from beneath him.

“What the fuck?” Bucky scrambles to his feet. Sweater is still there, next to the tree now, pulling things out of a small red sack. When he produces a bow and arrow that could not possibly have fit inside, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“How the _fuck_?”

“I told you, pal, I’m fucking Santa Claus.” Sweater drapes the sack over his shoulder (his arms bulging within the tree-patterned knit) and then cocks one hip out. The pose is outrageous. Too casual, too slick, too fucking hot to be allowed. He looks Bucky in the eye and cocks his head. “James Buchanan Barnes. The last gift you ever asked Santa for was a signed Burleigh Grimes baseball, bonus if it still had spit on it. Wait, Burleigh Grimes. That’s…”

Bucky blinks. “How would you… How the fuck would you know that?”

Sweater just sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’ve gotta go. Places to be. Cookies to eat.” He picks up one of the decorated cookies and takes a big bite, washing it down with a swig of milk.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, pressing a finger to the side of his nose again.

And Bucky has seen a lot of shit. A lot, a lot. He helped Natasha and Barton and a literal Norse god fight aliens. He’s enhanced by the same Tesseract that made that very battle happen. He’s old as fuck and still looks like he’s in his 20s and he’s got a metal arm.

But this? This breaks him. Sweater’s body goes wonky, stretching thin like taffy, like he’s transforming into some kind of funhouse mirror version of himself, and then—like boba through a straw—he’s sucked up the Bartons’ chimney out of sight.

Bucky stares at the now-empty room and the new presents under the Christmas tree.

“No,” he says, and he goes back to bed and tries to convince himself it was a dream.

* * *

It happens again a year later. This time, Bucky’s with his niece and grand niece. He’s had a rollercoaster of a year that started with a leaked identity and actual living members of his family reaching out. He discovers two of his three sisters are still alive and wreaking havoc on a care facility in Jersey, and he meets Becca’s daughter and granddaughter.

And now here he is, under a quilt made by his mother and maintained by Becca (God rest her), hearing rustling in the living room and wishing he wasn’t.

“No, please no,” Bucky says, and he gets out of bed and slides whisper-quiet into the hall.

Sweater’s got on a different red sweater (holly leaves), and because God hates (loves?) Bucky, this one is somehow even tighter than the last. In fact, Bucky’s pretty sure it’s only staying on his body through sheer force of will. Or maybe huge, huge amount of Christmas magic.

“Aren’t you supposed to have, I don’t know, a red suit?” Bucky asks, leaning on the door frame with his arms crossed. Next to the tree, Sweater—fuck, _Santa_ —jumps about a foot in the air, dropping his red sack.

“You again,” he says, trying to recover.

“Me again.”

“Didn’t tackle me this time. I guess that’s an improvement.”

“The night is young.” Bucky shrugs.

“I looked at your file.”

“My…file?” Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“You’re right. That sounds too serious.” Santa reaches into the sack and pulls out a massive box perfectly wrapped in candy stripe paper. “It’s more Naughty and Nice List status. Gifts you wanted.”

Ah. Of course.

“Guessing I was on the naughty list a lot,” Bucky says, looking down at his feet.

“Why would you think that?” Santa asks, sitting down on the couch and picking up the plate of cookies. He takes a bite and hums in appreciation. “Mmm, ths’r’gd.”

“My Ma’s recipe. She always added a dash of fresh nutmeg.” Bucky sighs. “And because I did a lot of bad things. Didn’t want to, but I did ‘em.”

Santa shakes his head and finishes off a cookie. “Lists don’t go past childhood.”

“Oh.”

“That said, Naughty List is never permanent. The coal thing is a myth. Naughty kids get a candy cane and a handwritten message from me explaining how they went wrong and encouraging them to try harder. A lot of them improve. Most of them. Niceness is…” Santa bites into another cookie, hums again. “Niceness is a verb, not an adjective.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Besides. It might not go on your record anymore, but… I can get a Nice read just by looking you in the eye.” Santa puts the half-eaten plate of cookies back on the table, then thinks better of it and scoops all of them into his red bag except for one. “That’s why I didn’t kick your ass last Christmas.”

Bucky snorts.

“Pal, I’d like to see you try.”

Santa crosses the room. “I could take you,” he says, and he puts the last cookie into Bucky’s hand. “I still have Google at the North Pole, White Wolf. As the expert on Naughty and Nice, I don’t think the shit you went through qualifies. Merry Christmas, Bucky Barnes.”

“Merry Christmas… Santa Claus?”

“You,” Santa says, shaking his head and chuckling.“In the unlikely event that we meet again, you can call me Steve.”

“Steve?” Bucky asks. “Not Kris or Nick or something?”

“Just Steve,” he says with a smile that makes his eyes glitter, and then he puts a finger beside his nose and Bucky shuts his eyes tight because he can only take so much, okay?

* * *

It isn’t an unlikely event. It isn’t unlikely because Bucky is the goddamned White Wolf and his ears can pick up on a mouse fart during a hurricane.

“You’re standing under the mistletoe,” Bucky says, and Steve looks up.

“Huh. How ‘bout that,” he says, before going back to his work. “What’s the rule if you’re under the mistletoe alone? Jerk off?”

“Jesus, are you allowed to talk like that?”

“I can talk however the fuck I want.”

“Pretty harsh language from Santa Claus.”

“Language is a construct like time and gender. And ‘fuck’ is really fun to say. Harsh consonants. So satisfying.” Santa slides a small gift box between branches in the tree. “Besides, no one but you is awake to hear me.”

Bucky snorts. “Christ, can you imagine if anyone _was_ awake. ‘No Ma, it’s okay if I call Timmy a bag of dicks. Santa says it’s _fine_.’”

“Now, hang on a minute.” Steve turns around, abandoning his red sack in an accent chair and putting his hands on his hips, and _seriously_ , if his sweater is any tighter next year, Bucky is going to go full Scrooge and sue the fuck out of Santa Claus. “Every action has a context. Calling Timmy a bag of dicks could be a Naughty thing to do because name-calling usually isn’t Nice. And it might even be bullying if this is a pattern of behavior. Of course, rudeness is also relative, and if Timmy is a fascist or a billionaire, then yeah, call him a bag of dicks. Santa approves.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “What if I call _you_ a bag of dicks?” he mumbles.

Steve smirks at him. “You trying to get on the Naughty List, Buck?”  
  
Buck. _Buck_. Bucky’s cheeks flush.

“I thought adults couldn’t be on the Naughty List.”

Steve flicks his eyes up and down Bucky’s body—from his red buffalo plaid pajama pants to his shoulder-length waves—and _what_? _WHAT?_ What is happening?

“Oh, I don’t know,” Steve says with a roaring-fire grin. “Maybe I could make an exception just this once.” He winks and dumps cookies into his bag, yet again leaving one behind for Bucky.

“Um.”

“Merry Christmas, Bucky.” And then he’s gone.

* * *

Bucky thinks about him all year. He thinks about him on Valentine’s Day when he sees a guy in a simple red sweater and imagines what it might look like three sizes too small and on Steve. He thinks about him during the heat of summer and wonders if he gets vacations. Are all the specials about tireless year-round work true? Does Santa get to sprawl on a beach and drink a Mai Tai every now and again?

_Oh no_. Now he’s thinking about Steve shirtless and oiled up with sunscreen and he needs to lie down.

It reaches a head when Bucky’s casually walking to the boba place Nat showed him all those years ago. He passes by a department store, then stops and backtracks. They have a classic window display, complete with a life-size mechanized Santa, his arm swaying back and forth to wave at passersby. He’s a classic Coca-Cola Santa. Red suit, hair and beard of white.

But he’s a symbol too. A reminder that Christmas is soon. So soon and also not soon enough.

For the first time since he was a child, Bucky is full of that nervous, anxious, excited holiday energy. Like the days are too long, like every sleep is a hurdle to get him closer to Christmas morning. Or Christmas Eve, in his case.

Day, night, day, night, impossibly long mission day, impossibly long mission night, impossibly long debrief, day, night…

On Christmas Eve, he stays up after his niece and grand niece have gone to bed. The plate of sugar cookies is towering this year, and Bucky maybe went out and shopped for the perfect Christmas Eve outfit. Instead of pajamas, he’s wearing Christmas leggings. They’re black and covered with holly and candy canes. They also hug every single serum-enhanced muscle in his legs. He’s got a sweater of his own—tunic style, bright Christmas green, decorated with a white Christmas tree and glittering puffball ornaments. His socks, well, they’re an homage to his upcoming visitor, even if they look nothing like him.

Bucky doesn’t watch the little space heater shaped like a small wood-burning stove. He tries not to think too hard about how Steve comes out of a fireplace that isn’t even attached to anything.

He focuses instead on staying awake. God, he really is every kid on Christmas Eve right now. Trying so hard to catch a glimpse of Old St. Nick.

Inevitably and despite the fact that he can stay awake for days on end in the field, he dozes off. He wakes to Steve’s voice.

“Aw, Buck, did you try to wait up for me?”

Bucky sits up, his hand flying to his head. He’d worked so hard on the perfect messy “my hair is already tied back if you know what I mean” bun.

“Nice sweater,” Steve says.

“Yours gets tighter every year.” This year’s red-with-white-snowflakes sweater clings to Steve like it was airbrushed on.

“Oh, thank you for noticing.” Steve smiles and starts on his work, the magical red bag producing box after box. The last gift is small and rectangular, wrapped in gunmetal and metallic gold with a gold mesh bow. Steve doesn’t put it under the tree. Instead, he brings it with him to the coffee table where the cookies are.

“Aren’t I a little too old for gifts from Santa?” Bucky asks, accepting the package with a warm flutter in his belly.

“Check the tag.”

> _To: Bucky  
>  _ _From: Steve_

Bucky slips his finger under the seam in the wrapping paper and pops the tape, carefully removing it and folding it up into a square.

It’s a book, the cover a splash of stars and colors.

_Cosmic Nebulae: An Anthology of Queer Science Fiction_

Bucky grins down at it and then looks up at Steve.

“And here I didn’t get you anything.”

“You kidding? I think about these cookies all year.” To punctuate this, Steve pops one in his mouth and groans. Bucky bites his lip. “And you,” Steve says. “Lately I can’t seem to get you out of my head.”

“Well, we do keep meeting like this.” Bucky lounges against the arm rest. “And I keep thinking about you too.”

“That explains the socks.”

“The likeness is uncanny.”

Steve hums and reaches out to wrap his hand around Bucky’s ankle, stroking a thumb across Santa’s beard. It’s made out of a different material than the rest of the sock, and it’s thick and soft and fluffy. He can feel Steve’s touch through it, back and forth over his ankle bone. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Bucky’s going to regret the choice to wear leggings in a minute. He swallows.

“I guess I do have something I could give you for Christmas,” Bucky says suggestively. “If you want it, that is.”

“Oh, Buck.” Steve’s voice goes deep and husky. “You shouldn’t have.”

Bucky moves, reaching out to put a hand on Steve’s knee with the intent to crawl catlike across the couch, to undo the button and zip on his skinny leg slacks, to…

“Not here,” Steve says.

“What?”

“Time on Christmas Eve—the rules.” Steve closes his eyes and shakes his head, taking a deep breath and blowing it out. “It’s complicated how it all works. I can’t manipulate time in this apartment. All that magic happens in the sleigh. In your world, I’m actually several places right now, and I can only be in so many places at… The short version is I don’t have enough time here. To do this with you.”

“I…” Bucky takes his hand off Steve’s knee and sits back up. “Do we need to wait until after Christmas?”

He’ll die. Physically, he’ll die. But he’s not gonna let his dick be the thing that ruins Christmas.

“No, we just need to move venues.”

“We…” Bucky processes. “You wanna fuck me in your sleigh.”

Steve nods. “I wanna fuck you in my sleigh. So much.” He stands and holds out his hand. He’s going to take Bucky through the fireplace. Bucky’s body is going to go all magic-wonky and, no he doesn’t think his brain can take that right now.

“No. No, I’m not… It’s on the roof, right?”

“Yeah.” 

“Meet you there.”

Bucky slips quietly out of the apartment and locks the door. He takes the stairs two at a time at a sprint, pushing through the rooftop door and there’s… there’s nothing there. His stomach sinks.

And then Steve steps out of seemingly nowhere. Like he pulled reality apart at the seams and walked right through.

“You can’t get to it without me,” he says, taking Bucky’s hand. And the second he does, there it is. It’s candy apple red with gold sleds and gold accents. There are reindeer, but not living ones. They all appear to be made out of the same things that form auroras, every one of them a vivid swirl of light and color.

“Oh,” Bucky says, in true wonder. “Oh my God.”

“They’re magic.”

“Obviously.”

“No, I mean, they aren’t sentient or alive.” Steve shifts nervously. “In case, you know, an audience of deer would be weird.”

“Oh.” Bucky snorts. “Yeah, thanks for that.” Steve pats him on the shoulder and then steps up onto the sleigh, offering him his hand.

“Ready to ride?” he asks, mischief glinting in his eyes, and instantly, another wave of heat spikes through Bucky’s nervous system.

“I bet you use that line on all the boys.”

“No, Buck, you’d be the first.” Steve smiles, and Bucky takes his hand and lets Steve help him aboard. And oh, it’s warm. The sleigh is open to the night air, but the chill doesn’t touch it. Like the interior is in its own little bubble of warmth.

Bucky wonders if the magic keeps it at a steady temperature or if it shifts to the rider’s comfort. If it stays like this, they’ll be dripping with sweat before… Before.

He’s going to fuck Santa Claus.

He’s going to _fuck Santa Claus_.

“Wait, I’ve been fantasizing about this since that one Christmas, and well…” Steve touches the side of his nose, and in the air above them, a sprig of mistletoe blooms, a red ribbon tied around its stem.

“Is it like Bewitched. Instead of a wiggle, you…” Bucky quiets, because Steve has slipped his fingers under Bucky’s chin and is gently guiding his face toward his own. Toward that soft gray beard and mustache. Toward his pouty pink lips hiding beneath.

“Is this okay?” Steve whispers, his breath ghosting across Bucky’s skin. 

“Yeah, Steve,” Bucky breathes, and Steve presses his lips to Bucky’s. It’s soft at first, his beard tickling. Their mouths glide together and apart, together and apart. And then Steve licks Bucky’s bottom lip—a question—and Bucky opens his mouth—an answer.

Their tongues meet hotly, gliding side by side, slick and wet. Steve’s hand moves from cradling Bucky’s jaw to cupping the back of his neck, holding him there while he kisses him so thoroughly that Bucky’s knees start to wobble.

“You okay?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods aggressively. But Steve sits down on the bench of the sleigh. And then, because he’s kind of an asshole, he pats his lap. “Come tell me what you want for Christmas.”

“You know what I want for Christmas, Steve.”

“Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it. Like a good boy.” Steve winks. Okay, Bucky will play. He sits down on one of Steve’s thick knees, pulls Steve into another kiss because how can he not when he sees those reddened lips still slick with saliva?

“I want,” he says, almost against Steve’s mouth. “I wanna get on my knees for you.”

“Nobody stopping you,” Steve says, but he keeps kissing him until Bucky feels breathless with it. Until his face is burning from the coarse hairs of Steve’s beard and mustache.

“I want,” Bucky says. “I want you to eat me out.”

Steve puts his fingers under Bucky’s chin again, thumbing at his dimple, raising his face so Bucky looks him in the eyes.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Steve says. “Get you all riled up, loose and wet?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, Steve. Christ. That’s what I want.”

“And then I’ll take you right here on the seat. You’re gonna look so pretty, Bucky. Maybe on your back with your legs wide open. Or on your hands and knees with your ass in the air. In my lap again, so you can ride me like you wanna.”

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice cracks.

“Shh. I know.” Steve touches his nose again, and a pad of red velvet replaces the metal floorboard of the sleigh. Bucky slips out of his lap, pleased at how soft the cushion is beneath his knees. Like kneeling on a cloud. He reaches for Steve’s button and zip, and Steve leans back and lets his legs fall open wider to give Bucky plenty of space to work.

The button Bucky thought was plain black is actually embossed with a snowflake, and he slips it through the buttonhole, gliding the coal black zipper down.

“Santa doesn’t wear underwear,” Bucky says, a tumescent shadow visible the second he gets the V of Steve’s slacks open.

“Only when he’s hoping…”

Bucky’s gentle, reaching in with his flesh hand to touch, to feel the softness of that sensitive skin against his palm. Inside Steve’s pants, he strokes up and down in slow glides, petting and teasing. Steve’s breaths grow a little heavier. Bucky licks his lips.

Hand wrapped around Steve, he pulls him free of the slacks. It’s hard to see him fully—the only light coming from the city and the half moon. But from touch and shadow and enhanced sight, he can tell enough. Steve’s maybe a little longer than average, uncut. He’s thick in Bucky’s hand. And the skin of his cock is pale in color, just slightly darker near the tip. Bucky licks his lips again and gives Steve another stroke—this one less teasing, dragging the foreskin of his cock up and down around the head. Steve moans softly.

“Can, uh, can anyone hear us?”

“No,” Steve says. “We’re here, but we’re not.” And Bucky is not even gonna try to unpack that particular piece of information until morning, at least. Instead he leans forward, running his tongue from the root of Steve’s cock, up the underside, and around the tip. He wets his lips, kisses the head of Steve’s cock—already damp with pre-come—and then he covers it, sliding down, down, down. He doesn’t stop until he can feel coarse curls against his face.

“Fuck,” Steve says, moaning obscenely when Bucky starts to suck him in earnest, bobbing his head along Steve’s length and letting him slide into his throat again and again. Steve shifts above him, his large hands finding either edge of the sleigh and gripping them tight. His head falls back, and he groans up at the blanket of stars.

Stars. Bucky just now realized he can see stars in New York fucking City. He watches them wink and sparkle while he fucks his mouth onto Steve, pulling off only to dip his head lower, to mouth at one ball and then the other.

“Christ, Bucky.” Steve lets go of the sleigh, reaching down with both hands to hold his face steady. “You’re very, very good at that.”

Bucky smiles, feral. “I know.”

Steve nods, letting one of his hands slip into Bucky’s hair. Nimbly, he pulls Bucky’s ponytail loose, gathering Bucky’s loose waves tightly in his fist.

“Open your mouth back up for me, Bucky,” he says, and Bucky does, letting Steve use his hair like a puppet string to push him back onto his cock. A thrill zips up his spine. Bucky has spent a long time (understandably) unable to give up any kind of control. Steve’s just one person, and yeah, his occupation probably makes him easier to trust. But that Bucky feels safe enough to give in even a little… He hasn’t felt this way since the ‘40s, since before the war and all that followed, since he knelt down outside of a bar that didn’t exist and asked a fella to do anything he wanted.

Steve fucks his mouth good, cock sliding between his lips over and over, drool falling in ribbons around it.

“Hell, I could come just like this,” Steve says, after he’s pulled Bucky’s face away to let him breathe. “But…” Steve shakes his head, uses Bucky’s hair to guide him back up into his lap, where Bucky can’t help but rut into him.

“Got you riled up, huh?” Steve asks. Like his own cock isn’t hanging out of his pants, rock hard and dripping. He kisses Bucky again, this time so sloppy and good. There’s spit everywhere and Bucky’s face is on fire by the time he stops. Steve looks around the sleigh, his hand out of Bucky’s hair, massaging him through his leggings now.

“We need a little more room, don’t we?” Steve says, and he touches his nose. Bucky’s past questioning any of it at this point, is almost past coherent thoughts altogether. Below them, the sleigh bench grows both wider and longer, the wooden seat shifting into something like the pad on the floorboard—soft and comfortable beyond Bucky’s wildest dreams—sheathed in butter-soft red velvet.

“Bucky, can I see you? All of you?” Steve asks, his hands wrapping around the hem of Bucky’s sweater. Bucky nods, chest heaving, and Steve tugs the sweater up and over his head. Bucky has to stand between Steve’s legs so Steve can get at his leggings and underwear. He shudders while Steve’s strong hands slide down each leg in turn, rough caresses guiding his pants all the way down.

“Should I leave the socks on?” Bucky asks after kicking off his house shoes, and Steve laughs a soft, husky laugh, then peels them off Bucky’s feet.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, guiding Bucky onto his back on the bench, raking his eyes over him. He reaches out to touch, to run his hand across Bucky’s hairy torso, down one hip, across a thick thigh. “Roll over for me.”

Bucky does, the bench big enough for him to spread out comfortably, resting his head on his flesh arm. Behind him, Steve drags his fingers gently up and down the cleft of Bucky’s ass. Teasing him. Bucky wiggles against the velvet.

“Steve, please.”

“Shh. Shh, shh, shh. I’m gonna take care of you, Buck. Such good care of you.” Bucky feels the beard before he feels Steve’s lips, coarse hair tickling one of his cheeks. And then Steve plants a kiss on the globes of his ass—one side and then the other. Another kiss, another—each one closer and closer to the center. “You deserve it, Buck, to feel good. To have somebody touch you in all those places you wanna be touched, to lick you open and fuck you deep. To make you come all over yourself. Don’t you think you deserve that?”

Christ, Bucky thinks. “Christ,” Bucky says.

“Tell me you deserve it. I wanna hear you say it.”

“I deserve it.”

“'I deserve to come,'” Steve says.

“I deserve to come.” And fuck, even if he doesn’t, at this point, he’d die if he didn’t get to.

“That’s it. That’s what I like to hear.” Steve keeps kissing, moving ever inward. Until his breath ghosts across the crease of Bucky’s backside. He leads with his thumb, slick and wet, massaging Bucky’s rim in gentle strokes that light up all the nerve endings there. Bucky sighs softly, tries to relax into the sensation even though his cock is begging for more. Pleading for touch-friction-stretch-pound.

Again, a tickle of beard hair precedes Steve’s mouth. Only this time, _this time…_ Steve’s tongue flattens against his hole and licks up and down, a slow back and forth like the rocking of a boat on gentle seas. Bucky’s sighs heavily, tries to press his ass back into Steve’s face, but Steve is holding him down with one arm and his body weight.

“Just relax, Bucky,” he whispers, swirling the tip of his tongue around and around. “Just let it feel so good.” He flattens his tongue again, the strokes more aggressive this time, his beard starting to scratch against Bucky’s ass. And oh, Bucky wants it. He wants beard burn there where he’ll feel it for hours until the serum takes it away. And he wants… He wants Steve to…

Like he can read Bucky’s mind, Steve teases at his entrance, dipping his tongue inside tentatively. A little spear. A lick, a twirl, a dip in deeper. Until Steve’s tongue is fucking into his hole in earnest. It’s not enough. It’s not enough to stretch Bucky open or build that delicious pressure inside of him. But it feels so good against all those sensitive nerves. And it’s not enough and…

“Fuck me,” Bucky says. “Please, Stevie, you gotta…”

“Do I?” Steve asks, his thumb back in place, pressing and rubbing and slipping inside and oh, please, just a little deeper.

“A little more,” Bucky murmurs.

“Oh?” Steve asks. “Want me to put my fingers in you? Rub you a little inside?”

“Steve,” Bucky whimpers.

“No, I know what you want,” Steve says. “Come here.”

Bucky rolls over, his eyes landing on Steve where he stands again beside the bench. He’s removed the too-tight sweater, though the slacks remain, suspenders hanging down by his sides, cock tucked back inside the open V. He’s shimmering with sweat, and there’s a tattoo on his left pectoral that Bucky can’t make out in the dark.

“Didn’t have lube in those leggings, did you?” Steve asks. And fuck, if Bucky can’t get dicked down tonight on a technicality…

“Oh, duh, Santa Claus,” Steve says, and Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Steve, if you nose-magic lube into my asshole, I’ll…” But Steve has crawled across the now-massive bench to grab the red bag out of the back of the sleigh, reaching inside and producing a bottle of slick. There’s a fucking red bow around the lid. Steve shakes his head and tears it off.

“How do you like to get fucked, Bucky?” he asks, fitting his fingers under Bucky’s chin to drag him into another searing kiss. “I just wanna get inside of you. Of course, I’d love to see your pretty face while I do it.”

“Then fuck me on my back.”

“Yeah?” Steve smiles at him, guiding him onto the velvet, and Bucky has to admit that between Steve and the magically starry sky above, it might be the best position he could’ve chosen. He opens his legs, drawing them up to expose himself to Steve. Steve hums in appreciation.

“Didn’t even have to ask. So good for me, Bucky. So Nice.” He’s got his cock back out of his slacks, slowly jerking himself to slick it with lube. Between Bucky’s thighs, he adds more slick. And then there he is, positioning himself, gently folding Bucky’s legs up between them.

“Because it never hurts to ask again, is this okay?” Steve nudges the head of his cock nudged up against Bucky’s hole.

“Please.”

Steve pushes in slowly, patiently easing inside and stretching Bucky open along the way. There’s a hint of a burn to it, just enough to satisfy the part of Bucky that wanted it to hurt in a good way. Like how muscles burn after a good workout or spar. But otherwise, Steve is patient and gentle, taking his time to make sure it’s good for both of them.

“Christ, it’s been a long time,” Steve says, staring down at the point where they connect, his eyes lit up. “Your needy little hole looks so pretty around my cock, Buck.”

“Jesus.”

“Different symbol of Christmas,” Steve says, “but I get that a lot.”

“You’re such an asshole.” Bucky shakes his head, and Steve laughs.

“Haven’t heard that one in a minute though.” Steve rests inside of him, hips against Bucky’s skin. “How you doing?”

“Want it.”

“I know you do.” Steve shifts, eyes focused between Bucky’s legs the entire time, pupils blown as he withdraws and slides back in. Again. Again. In, out. In, out. Until Bucky might die with the slowness of it, how it’s just on the cusp of being what he wants. What he needs.

“Stevie, sweetheart.” Bucky reaches for his hips, wishing his arms were long enough to grab them and pull Steve in hard. “Please, you gotta…”

“Yeah? Ready to get fucked good, Bucky?”

“Been ready.”

Steve hums, draws his hips back again, pushes inside. Faster. Faster now. He picks up speed like a train, every pump a little quicker than the last. And Bucky can feel him stretching him and filling him over and over, hitting him just right inside.

Skin smacks skin, the sound echoing through whatever time-and-space bubble they occupy. Bucky lets his head fall back, lets his eyes shut, lets his mouth hang open while so many moans rumble out of his chest. Steve is railing him so good, every thrust counting, his hands digging into Bucky’s thighs while he uses them for leverage.

Deep. He’s so deep inside of him that Bucky loses himself for a moment, stops being Bucky, starts being Bucky-Steve. Steve-Bucky.

“Fuck, you feel so good. So goddamn tight and warm, Buck.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Not a problem.”

Bucky’s hot, and every spot where his and Steve’s bodies touch is slick and damp. More than once, Steve’s hand slips down his leg, making Steve grip him tighter in an attempt to maintain purchase. Bucky hopes for light bruises, for little marks that prove Steve had him like this. Reaching for Steve’s wrists, Bucky grabs hold.

“Fuck, I’m close,” Steve grunts. “You need me to touch you?”

Bucky’s vision is blurring, the stars above going hazy in a whirl of color. Does he need? Does he _want_?

“I…” He looks Steve in the eye, and there’s something about the way that Steve’s face changes that… Oh, because Steve is… He’s… He _knows_. He knows what Bucky wants. Exactly what Bucky wants without Bucky even having to say it. He lets go of one of Bucky’s knees. Bucky watches him lick his palm, watches him reach down with a sloppy wet hand to grab hold of Bucky’s hard cock and pump and pump and—

“Oh,” Bucky groans, voice rumbling out from the deepest part of his chest. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Bucky comes. He comes all over Steve’s wet hand. All over Steve’s slacks. All over his own thighs and belly. He comes with a groan loud enough to wake the whole city if they could only hear it. He comes with Steve’s moans in his ears, with Steve’s cock pumping ribbons of come inside of him.

When Bucky’s finished, when Steve’s finished, Steve slowly pulls out. Bucky can feel the come follow, dripping down his crease onto the bed of velvet beneath them. Panting heavily, Steve falls onto his back beside Bucky, his gray hair sweaty and damp.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He turns on his side, trails fingers through the gray-blond hair on Steve’s chest. With a fucked-out smile, Steve turns to him, finding his mouth to give him a sloppy kiss. Bucky kisses back, hopes that every swipe of lips and tongue is imbued with as much post-orgasm gratitude as he feels.

“You are magnificent,” Steve says, sliding fingers through Bucky’s slick hair. Steve smiles again, like it snuck up on him and he can’t control his face. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“Thank you back.”

They lie next to each other for an untold, unrecorded amount of time, Steve’s fingers stroking whisper-soft against Bucky’s scalp, Bucky’s trailing through so much downy chest hair.

“How long have you, you know…?” Bucky asks, after Steve has leaned over to give him another soft kiss.

Steve hums and looks up at the night sky. “It was the early ‘40s, right before the war. I was always sick growing up, and I had pneumonia again. Bad. I think it would’ve been it, that time.”

“Oh.”

“The guy before me. His name was Abraham Erskine. He took over in the 1600s and was, you know, ready to see what happens after we move on from this world. So he found me there in the hospital on Christmas Eve, explained what would happen, asked me if I wanted to take over. On Christmas morning, the priest came. And right after he left, there was Erskine. He passed me the mantel and the magic. It changed me, changed my whole life obviously. And now here we are…”

“So you were born in…”

“1918. When I looked at you and Knew about that Burleigh Grimes spitball, I wondered. That’s why I looked you up. I think I wanted you the second I saw you. Maybe I could sense it, that we were, I don’t know... It all comes down to shared life experiences, I guess.”

“Right. Me, a weapon. You, the bringer of Christmas joy.”

“You’re not a weapon, Bucky. You were a victim. And now you’re a survivor.” Steve finds his hand on the velvet, twines their fingers together. “We both are in our own ways.”

Bucky’s clears his throat. He swipes his thumb across one of Steve’s knuckles, and they fall quiet again. Above them, the sky continues to glitter.

“I don’t want to, but I should go soon,” Steve says, and he sounds genuinely regretful. “Time may be on my side, but… Well, it’s complicated.”

“Can I see you sometime? Maybe sooner than next Christmas Eve?”

“I’ll crash out for most of tomorrow,” Steve says. “But the day after that? Coffee?”

“I’d like that.” Bucky sits up and starts gathering his clothes, pulling them back on. “You said you have Google, right? Place called Brooklyn Roasters at 3?”

“I’ll be there.”

“I might have a mission. If I don’t show…”

“Drop a ‘Dear Santa’ letter in any mailbox. I’ll get it almost instantly.” Steve reaches out, cups Bucky’s jaw again, steals another kiss. He’s back in the impossibly tight sweater, his clothes magically clean. Bucky doesn’t need him to do it, but he lets Steve hold his hand and help him down out of the sleigh. 

“Thanks for the book,” Bucky says. “And…”

“Thank you. For reminding me I might be a temporarily immortal being dedicated to giving gifts to the entire world, but that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to want good things for myself.”

They kiss one more time, and Bucky walks away, the sleigh slipping out of reality behind him.

Back downstairs, the apartment looks exactly like he left it. The clock on the microwave has only moved forward by six minutes.

On the coffee table next to Bucky’s new book, the plate of cookies sits empty.

All except for one.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me what happened here because I don't know.
> 
> If you want to see the coloring sheet (yeah, you read that right) that inspired this Steve and/or share this fic on Twitter, you can [click here.](https://twitter.com/BiStarBucky/status/1335055901280137217?s=20)


End file.
